


One Shots: CAAW 2k17 Collection

by red_crate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Blood, Come Marking, Derek to the Rescue, Established Relationship, Gen, Hand Jobs, M/M, One Shot Collection, Polyamory, Pre-Slash, Sex Pollen, Stitches, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-29 20:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate
Summary: Short fics I've written to participate in the 2017 Chris Argent Appreciation Week.•Day one: beach theme; Chris/Victoria; genfic•Day two: blood theme; Chris/Stiles; pre-slash•Day three: possessive behavior theme; Chris/Derek; pre-slash•Day four: sex pollen theme; Chris/Peter; rated T•Day five: mystery theme; Chris; genfic•Day six: frenemies with benefits theme; Chris/Peter; rated E•Day seven: polyamory theme; Chris/Derek/Stiles; rated G





	1. 1: Beach; Chris & Victoria; general

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will be a different theme, noted in the chapter title.
> 
> Please let me know if you like them!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my thanks to Twisted_mind for looking over my rough draft and cheerleading.

They made the mistake of telling her where they'd be going in the morning, and she hadn't stopped talking about it. At dinner, she'd peppered Chris and Victoria with questions about the water, mermaids, and pirates. At bedtime, she'd requested Chris read  _ The Rainbow Fish _ three times before she fell asleep. At six thirty in the morning she'd woken them up by climbing into their bed, shouting about how she wanted to build the absolute biggest and  _ best  _ sandcastle ever. 

 

Chris snatched her up and rolled the two of them under the covers, asking Victoria if she thought that counted as practice for burying someone alive. Allison's giggles were loud and shrill in his ears, her tiny little legs kicking at him as she insisted he was “so silly, Daddy.” Eventually, they'd gotten Allison to calm down enough to eat breakfast and get dressed, though there might have been some pleading and bribery in the mix. There had been one threat of time out if Allison didn't stop running around the kitchen island pretending to be a shark while Victoria made everyone sandwiches to bring along. 

 

A little later, Chris set Allison down on the sandy parking lot close to the beach access, to which she looked very she unimpressed. 

 

Chris chuckled, grabbing one of the beach bags from the backseat. “What's wrong?”

 

“Where's the beach?” She pouted, arms crossing over the Minnie Mouse on the front of her pink and white swimsuit. 

 

Victoria was unloading the back, two folding chairs hooked on one shoulder and the other beach bag clutched hand. Chris took the chairs from her so she could grab the plastic tub they brought Allison's sand toys in. 

 

“We have to walk there.” Victoria informed Allison. “It isn’t far. We can't park the truck on the beach. It would get stuck. That would be bad.” She always spoke to Allison like she was a very small adult, which their daughter ate up.

 

That seemed to lift her spirits, nodding seriously. “We need our truck to so we can see Aunt Kate and Grandpa.” A hopeful grin spread across her face. “Can we go to the beach  _ now _ ?” 

 

Chris put out his hand expectantly, hiding a smile when his daughter sighed heavily and slapped her small hand into his; the entire thing still fit in his palm. He swung their arms twice, pretending to make sure they had a good hold on each other. “Okay, let's go.”

 

When the climbed the wooden steps leading over the sand dunes, Allison had a hard time remembering she was supposed to hold Chris’ hand  _ the whole time _ . She practically dragged him until the ocean was in sight, stopping at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were wide with awe.

 

“Pretty nice, huh?” Chris squatted so he could see everything from his daughter's point of view. He smiled and wrapped his arm around her small bird-like shoulders. “Ready to go conquer the sea?”

 

Allison's face lit up and she squealed excitedly. She took off running, sand flying everywhere has her flip flops slapped down. Chris’ heart stuttered for a moment, before he reminded himself that he could see where she was going, and, if push came to shove, he could outrun her and keep her from harm. Besides, he and Victoria both had knives hidden in their bags, if anyone were to try something. 

 

“Slow down! We've got all day!” He called, fondness coloring his voice as followed along after her. 

 

Allison made it to the water and chased the tide as it pulled out, giggling. The sound of it caught on the breeze, carrying back towards Chris. She was beautiful and lovely and the best thing he and Victoria ever accomplished. 


	2. 2. blood; Chris &Stiles pre-slash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't quite get this finished in time to post on the 10th. Oh well. 
> 
> Warning for description of blood and injury, though not extremely explicit.
> 
> Prompt from Twisted_Mind. <3

 

Stiles tugs his shirt off gingerly after hoisting himself up onto the bathroom counter. The wet material makes a slapping sound when he tosses it into the bathtub. Chris pulls off his own jacket and hooks it over the corner of the door to dry. The suture kit is pulled from under the sink and Stiles leans down to use a squeeze bottle to irrigate the gash on his bicep. Pink water circles the bottom of the basin and slides down the drain. He hisses as the saline water cleans out his injury. His hair is wet from the storm they got caught in on the way back. Fat drops of water slip down his face and neck carrying sweat and dirt along the way.

 

Chris watches Stiles clench his jaw, muscles twitching as his nerves sing fire with the pain. A choked back whimper escapes Stiles’ throat, but he keeps a mostly steady hand on the bottle. Chris’ own scrapes and bruises across his cheek and chin are a dull throb, barely noticeable. A headache is blooming with insistence along the base of his skull from the impact against a cinder block wall. He'll need three ibuprofen to combat it before sleep overtakes him later. Snapping out of his daze when Stiles sets the bottle down, Chris takes hold of his arm to turn it so he can get a better look at where a knife blade sliced him open. 

 

It's about two inches wide, but deep enough that Stiles should technically be in the ER. The second time Chris noticed sloppy bandages on Stiles, he'd figured it out. Stiles refuses to go to the hospital anymore. Arguing with the boy had been fruitless. He would just make empty promises to get Melissa to look him over, but never follow through. He'd set his own broken pinky with a diy splint and medical tape. 

 

These days, Chris brings him back to his apartment after any skirmishes. He knows how to suture, has some basic medicines that the average person wouldn't have access to, and experience putting people back together when things are too hectic or unsafe for civilian hospitals. Stiles threw up the first time he watched Chris stitch up his own side, but he never refused his help.

 

“Here,” Chris steps between Stiles’ knees with the needle and thread. 

 

Stiles is breathing harshly, still obviously recovering from the bright white burst of pain caused by cleaning out his wound. He doesn't flinch when Chris pinches the two sides together, doesn't seem to feel the sting of the needle’s first entry. He keeps his head turned away from where Chris is working. The fingers of his hand curl against Chris’ hip, resting there comfortably to accommodate the twist of his arm. 

 

He has to wipe away blood every few seconds where it oozes sluggishly up as he tightens the thread, pinches the gash shut to help insure a mostly straight and clean set of sutures. It only takes eleven stitches before Chris is finished. The bleeding has mostly stopped by then and Chris cuts the thread with medical scissors. He runs his hand up the backside of Stiles’ arm lightly. 

 

“Thanks,” Stiles’ voice is gruff, deeper than it once was. He's older now than when Chris only knew him as his daughter's weird friend. Time has leaped forward too fast for Chris, leaving behind too many casualties. 

 

Stiles takes Chris’ jaw in hand, fingers long, tapered, and capable. Chris lets him turn his head to the side so he can study the scrapes along his cheek. His other hand is still curved along Chris’ waist, warm and solid through the thin material of his shirt. His presence is so visceral to Chris right now, the scent and heat of him closer than Chris generally allows anyone. 

 

He closes his eyes at the burn of alcohol on his skin. The astringent smell is comforting though, momentarily erasing the masculine scent of Stiles. He doesn't whimper from the mild pain, doesn't take a sharp breath when a fresh bruise is accidentally prodded. Chris keeps still while Stiles lingers even after he's finished with the alcohol swab. Fingers trace along the perimeter of his superficial wounds, down his neck, along a scar he's had for longer than Stiles has been alive. 

 

Chris blinks and steps slowly back, hoping Stiles doesn't take the action as a total rejection. He takes Stiles wrist in hand and watches Stiles slide down off the counter with a little frown on his lips. 

 

“I have a shirt you can borrow.” He can't help but rub his thumb along the thin skin just inside Stiles’ wrist. The pulse there is quick, insistent. Chris counts each jump compulsively. 

 

Stiles nods once. “Okay.”

 


	3. 3. Possessive behavior; Chris/Derek; pre-slash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the theme of "possessive behavior" very loosely. But it's there. Interpret at will.

 

Chris jolts out of the light doze he'd slipped into when the rolling door to the warehouse opens. He has three seconds to blink himself to alertness and try coaxing his legs into bracing for an attack. Instead of the sneering face of Lorenzo come to spend another hour interrogating and torturing him, Chris finds himself looking at Derek Hale. He thinks it must be a dream, at first, or a hallucination from dehydration. 

 

“Chris,” Derek hesitates a beat before rushing over. 

 

He uses his claws to cut the rope binding Chris’ wrists behind his back and to a metal hook anchored  into the floor. The sudden loss of restraint has Chris slumping forward as new pain shoots through his limbs, shoulders, and back, circulation rushing back where it had been impeded. Derek steadies him, crouched on the floor in front of him. He's warm where Chris has been chilled in the unheated warehouse for the past two days. Chris leans his forehead into the crook of Derek's neck, shuddering. 

 

On unsteady legs, he stands up with more help from Derek. The younger man wraps an arm around his back, hand hooked under Chris’ armpit for support. Chris’ knee is screaming with pain and he needs to piss so bad his kidneys hurt. He limps alongside Derek. 

 

“What happened?” He asks just before they get to the door Derek came through. “Lorenzo? His guys?” 

 

Derek leans around the metal of the building, looking out, and answers, “taken care of. I got three guys, one woman. Do you know how many there were total?” 

 

“I think that's it. Lorenzo never had a huge crew. How far away is your car?” Chris looks behind them when Derek propels them forward, just in case they've both missed someone. “My gear should be in the main house.”

 

Derek sighs, clearly unhappy about the implied request. He changes direction. “I'm two blocks over.”

 

“I can get my stuff while you get the car.” The prospect of shuffling two more blocks right now isn't pleasant, and if Derek got everyone out of the way it should be safe enough to split up. 

 

Derek shakes his head. “I don't think—”

 

“If you try and make me walk that far, you'll end up carrying me. I've been tied to the floor for over forty-eight hours.” When he sees Derek open his mouth to argue, he continues, “it'll take less time this way.”

 

“Fine.” Derek acquiesces tersely. 

 

The house is quiet except for a TV in the living room playing a rerun of  _ Friends _ . Chris spots two bodies on the floor. Lorenzo is in the kitchen, slumped over the table with a knife clutched in his hand. The blood pooled around his head is dark, already getting tacky in the air. 

 

Chris side-eyes Derek. “Since when do you use guns?” 

 

Derek shifts and pulls a Mark IV from the back of his jeans, tilting it so Chris can see. He's got two of those back in his apartment. Chris stares at it, held in Derek's hand easily, safety on and finger away from the trigger. 

 

“Braeden taught me when I lost my powers.” He slides the guy back where he got it. “I figured it was the less obvious choice when going up against hunters.” Derek's voice is tight, though Chris isn't exactly sure which bit is the cause. 

 

“I can go from here.” He decides not to comment, though an odd sense of loss spreads through him at the thought of Derek willingly using a gun, being taught being someone else. 

 

Derek leans him up against the hallway wall, steadying him with both arms. Chris’ legs already feel a little better, even if his knee is screaming in agony. He leans his head back and sighs out a breath. 

 

A barely there touch against his neck brings Chris’ attention back to Derek. He watches Derek frown, feels him reaching for the collar’s clasp. 

 

Chris lets him take care of it, the least of Chris’ worries this whole time. The humiliation of being lead to the warehouse on a leash had barely registered to him, anger flooding through  him instead at the crude and cruel things Lorenzo and his goons yelled at him. He opens his eyes when the collar drops to the ground and Derek rubs his thumb along where the rough hewn leather chafed his skin. 

 

“They thought it was funny: collaring the hunter who helps protect werewolves.” 

 

Chris looks at Derek, his hazel eyes full of an unidentifiable emotion. He reaches up to take Derek's arm in hand, doesn't pull his hand away from where Derek's fingers are still resting on his throat. It's a vulnerable position to be in, and he doesn't mind it, not now and not with Derek. 

 

“Thank you. For coming for me.” He squeezes once. Derek drops his arm and nods. Chris misses his warmth when he steps back. 

 

“Of course.” Derek pulls his keys out of his pocket. A smirk tugs at his mouth when he says, “I couldn't let them have my pet hunter.” 

 

Chris lets out a bark of laughter, surprised and delighted. “Asshole.” 

 

Derek turns away, kicking the discarded collar out of sight, before heading back out of the house. Chris watches him pull out the Mark IV from under his jacket, the roll of his shoulders as he holds the gun ready in case he needs it. 

 

Chris’ bladder reminds him he has more pressing issues than trying to process Derek using firearms and how that makes Chris feel, being saved once again by the man his sister had tried killing so many times. He shoves off the wall and shuffles until he finds a toilet, then his gear.

 


	4. 4. sex pollen; Chris/Peter; rated T

 

An hour later, after recounting his interaction with the witch, Peter is pacing around Chris’ living room while Chris lounges on the couch watching him. 

 

“Are you sure you don't want me to call Deaton? He can probably reverse the spell. If not, he might be able to tell you what could help.” Chris takes a sip of his beer, completely at ease while Peter feels like he's burning up from the inside. 

 

He glares at Chris. “I already know what will help, Christopher.” Turning on his heels, he stalks over to Chris and braces his hands on the back of the couch, hovering over him. He knows his eyes are flickering electric blue, can feel the fangs and claws just beneath the surface of his restraint.

 

The scent of him is earthy and overwhelming in this state. Peter is hyper-aware of their proximity, the flecks of white mixed with blonde and brown of his beard, the minute expansion of Chris’ pupils. He has to force himself to refrain from sliding into Chris’ lap and rubbing all up against him. The faded tank top Chris is wearing looks soft. Peter can't help but wonder if he's going commando beneath his sleep pants. He thinks about all that hard muscle and warm skin, shuddering. 

 

Chris, the shithead, tilts his head back and drains the last of his beer. Peter gets stuck staring at the stretch of his exposed throat. He doesn't notice when Chris presses the mouth of his beer bottle into his chest until he's pushing Peter away. 

 

“Down, boy.” Chris smirks, clearly enjoying his predicament. 

 

The amusement rolling off Chris is good natured and that's the reason Peter chose to come to him. His other, limited options, would have involved much more humiliation and possibly recorded evidence for future humiliation. Chris will laugh at him now, tease him later on in code that no one around them will quite understand, an inside joke. 

 

Peter groans, frustrated at the betrayal of his body, and falls to his knees in front of Chris. Head in hands, he whines, “I feel like I'm going to go crazy. My skin feels like it's on fire and I've been hard for two solid  _ hours _ .” Sweat slides down the middle of his back despite the air conditioning. 

 

Chris cards his fingers through Peter's hair, soothingly. But the touch ignites him further for a moment, until it suddenly dampens. A hurt sound fights its way out of Peter's throat and he leans into the palm on his scalp. 

 

“Poor baby.” Chris is grinning, Peter can hear it. “You could take a cold shower, jerk off in there. Go find your witch and apologise profusely. Maybe she will release you from the spell.” By the end of his list of suggestions, Chris seems to have lost his amusement and found a thread of compassion. 

 

He leans forward, spreading his knees to accommodate Peter's bulk, as he pulls Peter closer. Chris presses the side of Peter's face to his thigh and carefully places his hand on the exposed length of Peter's neck. 

 

Peter turns his face against the firm muscle. He can smell Chris so strongly now, smell how he's half hard but not necessarily turned on, smell the musky scent of him after a day spent in tight jeans and a leather jacket. It's intoxicating, revs up the need inside him to fuck and be fucked. But Chris keeps his hand firm and grounding on Peter's neck. It's like a balm. 

 

“How long is it supposed to last.” Chris asks quietly. His fingers work the tightness out of Peter's neck.

 

He shrugs. He cups Chris’ ankle, a delicate place on any person but still strong on Chris. He reminds himself he can't rut against Chris’ calf like an actual dog. At least, he comforts himself, Chris cannot smell the wetness gathering in the front of his underwear. Everything is hidden, even the open want on his face where he hides against Chris’ thigh. 

 

Forlornly, Peter answers, “midnight, like Cinderella.” 

 

Chris hums, acknowledging him. “Does this help? You're much less fidgety now.” His other hand comes up to pet his hair some more. 

 

Peter nods. He wonders if suffocation would put him out of his misery. Just stop breathing for a bit, just enough to pass out for an hour or two. He imagines waking up without aching balls and a drooling cock in his pants. Such a simple thing he has taken for granted.

 

Chris tugs his hair insistently until Peter looks up at him. “Do you want to lie down?” 

 

“You'd be okay with that?” Peter asks with a cracking voice. His muscles tense and flex, mind already in bed with Chris, clothes shredded and skin sliding against skin. 

 

“ _ Just _ lying down.” Chris pushes at him and Peter stands. His eyes track down to the front of Peter's jeans where they are straining. He winces in sympathy. “Take those off though.”

 

They do go to bed, Chris’ bed. It’s wonderful and terrible. The sheets are a week old, full of the scent of sleep and relaxation and  _ Chris _ . Peter pulls a pillow over his face and drowns in it for a bit, back arching. When Chris’ hand slides over his bare stomach, he moans wantonly. 

 

Chris curls an arm over his waist and rests his chin on Peter's chest. He pulled off his own shirt before lying down as well. The press of their skin is satisfying, Chris cool to Peter's overheated flesh. He doesn't put up a fight when Chris tugs the pillow away. 

 

“After it's over, I'll let you fuck me.” He promises and the words go straight to Peter's cock. 

 

Peter pushes his teasing face away with a groan, hating and loving the laugh he lets out. 

  
  
  



	5. Mystery theme; Chris; genfic

 

He remembers Kate when she was a baby, how small and loud she was. She was kind of squinty. And Chris fell in love with her the day his parents brought her home and he got to hold her.

 

He's holding a warm bundle in his arms now, staring at the shock of dark hair where Kate's had been wispy, fair. She weighs less than his hunting bow, almost nothing it seems. 

 

This baby has changed so many lives. 

  
“I hope I did the right thing.” He feels like a thief in the night, supposes he is in some respects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The baby is probably not the one you assume it is. _dun, dun, dunnnn_
> 
> This drabble is from a concept I've had for about a month. Yesterday I started bouncing ideas and expanding on it with Twisted_Mind, and this happened. It fits into the mystery theme of today. ;)
> 
> I will be writing a full-fledged fic eventually.


	6. frenemies with benefits theme; Chris/Peter; rated E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, the theme is fuckbuddies to lovers or romance. This sorta fits into that?

There's an intricately folded sheet of notebook paper lying on top of Chris’ physics textbook when he opens his locker after third period. As soon as he sees it, he knows who it's from. No one else passes him notes. He stares at it for thirty seconds, imagining he had the will to toss it into the trash on the way to lunch without unfolding it. 

 

_ Locker room. _

 

Chris reads the words once before quickly crumpling the paper in his hand, and shoving his books into the locker. He'll have to swing by before English and get his things. Barely anyone looks his way as he moves against the crowd heading towards the lunch room while he slips to the side and down a less populated hallway. He keeps his gate loose but purposeful, gaze sliding over anyone who glances at him. 

 

He pushes the door to the boys’ locker room open and gets dragged further inside and slammed up against the wall by supernatural strength. Chris doesn't fight it. 

 

“Hello.” The word curls out of Peter's mouth in the shape of a smirk. 

 

Chris sighs heavily at Peter's obvious delight, pushes down the smile threatening to bloom. This is a bad idea for more than one reason. Currently, Chris is thinking about how insufferable Peter gets when he thinks he's manipulating someone into doing his will. He leans in and catches Peter's lips in a kiss that doesn't even pretend to start out chaste. 

 

“Ten minutes until the coach comes in for his midday cry session.” Peter mutters against Chris’ mouth and his hands work at Chris’ shirt. 

 

Chris bites Peter's bottom lip and licks away the hiss Peter lets out. “Get your dick out.” 

 

That is rewarded by a chuckle and Peter shoving Chris’ shirt up his stomach to bunch under his armpits. He rubs his hands down Chris’ stomach slowly, licking a line up Chris’ neck. 

 

Against his ear, Peter promises, “I'm gonna come all over your gorgeous abs.” 

 

The words and touch stoke the fire burning low in Chris’ groin. He unbuckles his own belt and undoes the button and fly of his jeans. He's already hard. 

 

“Do it then.” Chris challenges, his voice rough with want. 

 

He shoves the front of his pants and underwear out of the way and strokes himself slowly. He arches his neck when Peter nips at the sensitive patch just behind his ear. Their hands brush together, too close and neither willing to make space for practicalities. When Peter gets his own pants down, underwear pushed halfway down his thighs, Chris takes both of their dicks in hand. 

 

Peter wraps his own around their heads. The slippery hot feeling of Peter's thumb smearing their precome around has Chris grunting. He turns his face into Peter's bicep where Peter has his forearm braced on the wall and leaning into him. It muffles the desperate sounds that are fighting up his throat while their hands find a rhythm to their tandem strokes. 

 

“Fuck, we need to find a better way to do this.” Peter complains faintly, breathing hard. 

 

He doesn't voice his thoughts about their clandestine meetings, because they both know this can never go anywhere, never be more than it is. Instead, Chris wraps his arm around Peter's waist just to feel the muscles of his back work as Peter rolls his hips forward. Peter still has his stupid, preppy sweater on. It's soft as butter against Chris’ skin.

 

Peter moans quietly, cheek to cheek with Chris. It's ridiculous how much that turns Chris on, the way Peter reacts under his touch as if he could never be satisfied for long. Chris thinks about it more than he should. He pictures Peter laid out beneath him with all the time in the world. How many times could he make him come before Peter begged him to stop, body too weak to produce even a dry climax? At his most secret moments, Chris thinks about curling up with Peter afterwards and falling asleep. 

 

“I’m close.” Peter pants the words out, asks, “you?” 

 

Chris huffs a laugh because of course he is. “Yeah.” 

 

He turns his head back so he can see the flush on Peter's cheeks, the sweat beading on his skin. Those dark blue eyes with their blown pupils. When Peter's eyes flash golden yellow, Chris has to bite his lip to keep from moaning too loud. He doesn't particularly want Peter to know about that. 

 

Peter speeds up his motion, rubbing his palm along the heads of their dicks in a way that catches seemingly every overly sensitive place above and below the ridge of Chris’ head. Combined with the steady ones he's keeping on their shafts, Chris is rapidly closing in on his climax. 

 

Peter comes first, just as promised, splattering across Chris’ abdomen. He watches Peter gulp down air, almost silent as he comes. The tendons in Peter's neck flex and his face goes even more pink. Chris can't fight the way his eyes shut tightly as he follows Peter over the edge. He feels Peter pressing his cock against his stomach so the mess is confined to Chris’ skin.

 

While he's catching his own breath, Chris rolls his eyes as Peter presses his palm and spreads his fingers over Chris’ heaving stomach. 

 

“Gross.” He complains without any real disdain when Peter smears their come around, traces Chris’ musculature like he's got a vat of finger paint to play with. 

 

Peter flicks his gaze, lazy and pleased, up at Chris. “Whatever.” He looks back down and Chris swears it almost feels like he's writing letters in the mess. 

 

He gives Peter one solid minute to get it out of his system, still unsure and unwilling to examine why Peter likes doing this. Then, he slides out from between him and the wall to find a towel so he can wipe clean. By the time he's finished, tucked in and everything in its place, Peter is leaning against a bank of lockers casually. He looks just as perfect as always, no hint of what he'd been doing not five minutes ago. 

 

Chris tosses the towel into a laundry basket and goes over to Peter. He pretends to straighten the collar of the button-up Peter has on under his sweater. 

 

“Don't be in the woods on the south side tonight.” He runs his thumb along the pristine white fabric, voice bored. 

 

Peter is quiet. His hands come up to hold Chris' by the waist loosely. “It's a full moon.”

 

Chris steps away from Peter’s grip. “Stay away from the south side.” He looks away and heads for the door. 

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Chris patrols with his parents and the crew they work with. The woods are silent.

 


	7. Polyamory theme; Chris/Derek/Stiles; rated G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happiness! 
> 
> This is also my last installment for the Chris Argent Appreciation Week 2017 challenge. It's been fun!! <3

 

Chris leaves the sliding door cracked open so he can hear when the oven timer goes off. The heat of the day still lingers even as the sun sinks lower and lower, and Chris looks at where Derek and Stiles are splashing leisurely in the pool. 

 

Derek's sitting on the edge, leaning back on his hands, and slowly kicking his legs where they frame Stiles. Chris squints because it almost looks like he could be sucking Derek off, with his head in Derek's lap like that, but he can just make out the sound of Stiles’ voice carrying across the backyard. There's laughter, carefree, that follows and makes Chris smile just because it belongs to Derek and is inspired by Stiles. He lies on the patio chaise Stiles convinced him they needed—it  _ is _ really comfortable—and shuts his eyes. 

 

“Hate to see you go, but I sure do love the view,” Stiles calls out.

 

Chris cracks his eyelids to see Derek heading his way, and Stiles stretched out on a float meant to look like a giant cupcake—also one of Stiles’ impulse buys. Derek is wearing tiny swim trunks in a deep blue, and Chris knows for a fact his ass looks amazing in them. 

 

Derek perches on the edge of Chris’ lounger, water seeps into Chris’ shorts but he barely notices. The kiss is sweet, a practiced and easy thing that Chris had, at one point, given up hope of ever having again. But things change, and sometimes unorthodox opportunities are given when one least expects. 

 

“Do you want to get in?” Derek tilts his head towards the pool. “I can take over kitchen duty.” He smiles, and Chris can't believe this is his life now. 

 

Chris doesn't hesitate. He kisses Derek’s cheek in thanks and stands up. When he tugs his shirt up, Stiles gives him a wolf whistle. 

 

“Dinner  _ and _ a show? Be still my heart!” Stiles teases, using a hand to lazily propel himself around on his pink frosted cupcake float. 

 

He walks slowly towards the pool then suddenly starts running, and cannonballs into the water. When he comes back up, Stiles is flailing in the water, laughing. Chris had made sure to jump in close enough to Stiles to upend his float. 

 

Stiles hooks an arm around Chris’ neck, clinging and grinning in Chris’ face. “That was mean.”

 

Beneath the water, Chris reaches out and grabs Stiles’ legs so he can pull them around his waist. Stiles squeezes his thighs there and wraps his other arm around Chris’ neck with the first. He tastes like chlorine, but it's perfect. 

 

When Chris hauls both of them backwards, dunking Stiles, he gets a knee in the stomach and a hand pushing at his face. It's hard to remember not to laugh until he breaks the surface.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://the-redcrate.tumblr.com).


End file.
